


living nightmares

by asteronomic



Series: requiem for the damned [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Drama, French Things, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Minor Character Death, References to Cancer, References to Terminal Illness, Romance, references to mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 15:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13861101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteronomic/pseuds/asteronomic
Summary: François shakes his head slightly and looks away, but theangerin that instant — the betrayal, the mistrust, thehumiliation— has Arthur’s chest tightening, has his stomach clenching, has his heart aching.Dr. Arthur Kirkland makes plenty of mistakes. Sometimes, there's no one there to make it better.





	living nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> (french things explained at the end.)

“So you are telling me, _petit_ , that you have not once in your life seen the masterpiece that is _À Bout de Souffle_?”

“I swear, François, if you call me little _one more fucking time_ —”

François, much to Arthur’s dismay, completely ignores him and continues to ramble on. Arthur has absolutely _no_ idea which cruel trick of fate landed _him_ as the one suffering through this unwelcome French curiosity, but — not that he’d _ever_ admit it — he’s found that, unfortunately, it’s grown on him. In fact, if he was to show up to work and simply _not_ be terrorised by François Bonnefois, he might just even — _miss_ it.

“You are such a _strange_ creature, Arthur! You know French so well, and yet you never speak it — anyone else would be so proud to speak such a beautiful language. _I_ am proud to speak it, even if I am not always proud to be French! And you know nothing of French film, and you’ve barely read any French literature. _And_ ,” François continues dramatically, gesturing to the shitty cafeteria food in front of them, despite your proficiency in the most exquisite of the Romance languages, you are still somehow completely lacking in taste.”

Arthur looks at his egg-and-cress sandwich, beginning to suspect that François’ argument is rooted more in personal preference than a question of cultural or intellectual value. “This is the best thing they sell here.”

François shakes his head. “No, any fool could see that the onion soupis clearly the least offensive choice. And thus, I conclude that it is imperative that you are initiated into the world of French _cinéma_.” 

Arthur doesn’t like the sound of that. “And how, might I ask, do you plan on achieving this?”

“Well, _I_ have the DVD, and _you_ have a large flat with an equally large TV—” 

“You’re inviting yourself into my home,” Arthur states, raising an eyebrow. He wishes he could say he’s surprised. 

François shrugs in a way Arthur can only describe as ‘ _Frenchly_ ’. “Do you see any other solution?”

In Arthur’s eyes, the best solution is to just not watch the damn film — but then again, he supposes he wouldn’t mind spending an evening with François. It’s been a while since he last spent time outside of work with people who aren’t his family, or Thomassen feeling guilty about dedicating all his time to his new _beau_. Neither is great company, so.

“I suppose you’re right, unfortunately,” he says. François grins.

Five hours later, there is a bottle of French wine on his coffee table, an arm around his shoulders, and a lot of lofty Francophone speculation on life, the universe, and — most importantly — _le cinéma_. 

Arthur isn’t sure what he’s most annoyed by — the French, or the fact that he understands and even agrees with most of what François is saying. 

“It is, I will admit, a good film,” he says as the credits roll.

“See? Next time, I am showing you _Amélie_ —”

“Hold on, _next time_? There will be no next time, you limpet—”

François bursts out laughing, and Arthur winces as red wine very nearly covers his pristine cream rug.

“I’m a _what_?”

“A _limpet_ , don’t you — you cling on, you _stick_ , I can’t get rid of you.”

“Would you _want_ to get rid of me, _petit_?”

“Well, if you call me _little_ one more time, I _will_ be getting rid of you. By way of murder.”

François raises an eyebrow. “Oh, now we both know that’s not even _close_ to true.”

And the worst part is, Arthur decides as François tops up their wineglasses, humming — he’s damn well right.

* * *

His mood spirals quickly after that, though. It begins with Zwingli — the worst things tend to, in his eyes — and an ECG graph.

“Look at this,” he says as Arthur walks into the conference room. “Do you see that?”

Arthur doesn’t have to be a cardiologist to understand the graph.

“Fuck,” he says quietly. “That shouldn’t be happening.”

“You don’t say.”

“Transverse myelitis and an abnormality such as that do _not_ usually end well.”

“You don’t _fucking_ say,” repeats Zwingli.

“Get the others in here. We’re not fucking done with this,” Arthur says. He sinks into the chair at the head of the table and stares at the whiteboard of scrawled symptoms and solutions. They _had_ it. He was _sure_ they had it.

His team trickles in slowly, Thomassen washing up last with dishevelled hair and his tie askew. It pisses Arthur off. It _really_ fucking pisses him off.

“Thomassen, a woman is _dying_ and you were _fucking your boyfriend_?”

Thomassen doesn’t defend himself. Instead, he looks down at Zwingli’s ECG graph and presses his lips into a thin line. “What are we going to do?” he asks, quietly.

“What _can_ we do?” asks Héderváry. 

“Chances of recovery get slimmer by the day,” says Arthur. “We need to work out why the arrhythmia decided to show itself, and how severe it is — _then_ we can treat. Diagnose first, then treat.”

“It could be literally anything,” says Zwingli. “We need more symptoms—”

“We don’t have _time_ for more symptoms, Zwingli—”

“What if it’s not transverse myelitis?” Edelstein breaks in. “You keep saying yourself this isn’t a normal case — what if it’s not a case at all?

“So what _is_ it?”

“I don’t know, but—”

“Oh, fucking hell,” Arthur says. He understands, he _finally_ fucking understands, but — _fuck_ — he’s too fucking _late_ —

“What?” Héderváry demands.

“Edelstein’s right, it’s not fucking transverse myelitis, it’s a _reaction_. Where are the patient’s _files_ — history of what, schizophrenia, and — oh, _fuck_.”

“We took her off all meds to see if it _was_ a reaction—”

“And it _was_ ,” says Arthur. “Just not to those. She’s been taking them herself, without consulting anyone.”

“Even if you’re right, we can still treat—”

A pager beeps, and Hédervary’s chair crashes to the floor. “Not for very fucking long, the patient just entered a hypertensive crisis,” she says, rushing out of the room, followed by Zwingli and Edelstein.

Arthur does not move. He knows how this fucking ends. Bitterly, he realises he’s seen this before — he should’ve fucking been able to catch it this time.

“It’s always too fucking little, too fucking _late_ ,” he says.

Thomassen gets up from his seat, wordlessly, and leaves.

_Time of death_ , Zwingli reports back, _eleven-oh-four a.m_.

* * *

Arthur can’t see straight, and it’s only a little bit to do with the cheap wine he was drinking like water earlier. He can’t really focus on anything _but_ François — but then again, why would he _want_ to? — and some part of him is telling him _no, bad, stop_ , but more of him says _yes_ , says _more_ , says _now_.

He shudders, pure, raw _pleasure_ , and François’ fingernails dig into his skin and Arthur _growls_. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, “ _fuck_ , yes, _Kristian_ —”

François freezes. Without a word, he pulls away from Arthur. Their eyes meet briefly, before François shakes his head slightly and looks away, but the _anger_ in that instant — the betrayal, the mistrust, the _humiliation_ — has Arthur’s chest tightening, has his stomach clenching, has his heart aching. François picks up the clothes strewn over Arthur’s floor and stalks out, not even glancing back. 

“Shit,” Arthur says to the empty room. It’s still spinning, his head is still — _fuzzy_ — but he _knows_ — _god_ , he’s fucked up.

François must hate him.

François must _hate_ him.

François _hates_ him.

He didn’t want François to hate him. He’s gone and fucked it up — _quelle fucking surprise_ — it’s ten fucking _years_ since he last slept with Kristian Thomassen, he should be _past_ all that — but no, he’s fucked up again, just as he did with Kristian, and fuck, he’s gone and fucking done it now, hasn’t he?

What the fuck has he _done_? 

He can’t sleep that night. He tosses and turns, the moment playing out again and again in his mind, and the _anger_ in Francois’ face repeating every time he closes his eyes. He lies in bed, curled into a ball, his phone in hand, staring blankly at François’ last texts to him — ‘ _Outside your flat with a bottle of wine, petit_ ’ ‘ _Heard what happened, chéri, do you need to talk?_ ’ ‘ _Excited to see you tonight, petit :)_ ’

He realised a while ago that he doesn’t hate François Bonnefois. François Bonnefois doesn’t — _didn’t_ — hate him. François Bonnefois is a much better choice for a lover — no deep-rooted commitment issues, no fear of affection, no crippling self-doubt. No boyfriend, either, which tends to help. 

(But François Bonnefois isn’t Kristian, and apparently, Arthur has a fucking problem with that.)

But he’s fucked it up now, so Arthur figures he should probably just curl up and rot away in the darkest corner of his flat.

“Bit fucking dramatic,” he says to himself, and pours a sixth cup of tea. 

He has four missed calls from Thomassen, and a curt text asking where he is. He goes back to bed. It is four in the afternoon.

* * *

 “ _Fatigue_ ,” Arthur announces to the four doctors in his conference room. Not a single one replies. “Ah, of course, I’m sorry, the crucial details: female, thirty-six, not the flu. So, causes?”  
“Where in God’s name have you been for the last three days, Kirkland?” Zwingli asks. “Oxenstierna is minutes away from murdering you, and the same goes for Bonnefois and everyone in this room.”

“Also experiencing joint pain, some chest pain, and a high fever.”

“Bonnefois looked pretty conflicted when you didn’t show up,” Héderváry muses. “It was as if he resented you for something, but felt guilty about it at the same time. It was strange; usually, the only emotional wrecks around here are you and occasionally Andersen or Edelstein.”

Arthur snaps his fingers. “You’re quite right, Héderváry, it could absolutely be cancer. Edelstein, you can run a CT.”

Edelstein looks blankly at him. “You list the vaguest of symptoms, and your conclusion is _cancer_?”

“He probably hasn’t slept since the office party,” says Thomassen. “Or maybe all he’s done is sleep, and he’s only half awake now. Art thou waking, Kirkland?”

Arthur smiles. “I’m very much awake, actually, but your concern touches me,” he says, no feeling behind it. “That CT, Edelstein?”

“Fine,” says Edelstein. “I’ll do your damn CT, but _you_ can explain to Oxenstierna why you ordered an expensive test for someone with the flu.”

“I’m glad we sorted that out, then,” says Arthur, still smiling. “The rest of you, give me _causes_.”

“Arthur, this is ridiculous,” says Thomassen. “You’re not thinking clearly, maybe you should just go home—”

“He’s not going home,” Oxenstierna says, appearing in the doorway. “Dr. Kirkland, do you realise you have missed three days of work without properly notifying your absence?”

Arthur is almost glad for the abrupt end to Thomassen’s apparent concern. “Apologies, Oxenstierna, it won’t happen again,” he says noncommittally. 

“No, it won’t, and you will be filling in this lovely pile of paperwork to explain your absence,” Oxenstierna says, dropping a stack of papers onto the table in front of Arthur. 

Arthur doesn’t bother to react. 

“Edelstein, that CT?” he says, and his team stop staring at Oxenstierna. Edelstein complies, shooting a last glare at Arthur. “And Zwingli and Héderváry, you can go and find out from the patient’s family whether they have any particular history of fibromyalgia—”

“A jump from cancer,” says Zwingli.

“I know which one I’m inclined to agree with,” says Oxenstierna, and Héderváry and Zwingli read that as their cue to leave. “A CT for what is most likely the flu, Kirkland?”

“I like to cover all bases,” says Arthur. “Don’t you have some paperwork to do?”

Oxenstierna raises his eyebrows, but finally leaves, and now it’s just Arthur, Thomassen, and a whiteboard of symptoms Arthur honestly doesn’t give a shit about. 

“Maybe it’s anaemia,” he says absently.

Thomassen just looks at him. 

“Arthur, what _happened_ after you left the party with Bonnefois?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Arthur, for Christ’s sake, I know you were upset about the patient, but I also know you’re far too good a doctor to let it affect you this much.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Arthur—” Thomassen breaks off as Arthur stands up.

“I’m going to make a start on my paperwork,” he announces, walking into his office. He shuts the door behind him, and Thomassen doesn’t follow.

In an ideal world, Arthur would have called Kristian right after it happened, would have talked it out with his best friend and the whole thing would have been put behind him.

In the real world, Arthur screamed his best friend’s name during sex. Ten years after any romantic relationship between them had crumbled. Nearly a year after Kristian found a lover, found the perfect little family life — everything he’s dreamt of since his parents replaced love with wealth and affection with high expectations.

And Arthur is _happy_ for Kristian and Søren, and he’s happy that Emil finally has something he can call a family, and above all, he’s just happy that his best friend is happy.

But that means that it’s not his place anymore to throw all his problems at Kristian and expect help in return, it’s not his place to run to him first, it’s not his place anymore to _depend_ on him anymore. He has a boyfriend and — essentially — a son for that.

So, you know, Arthur can’t turn to him, and he certainly can’t turn to anyone else. 

“Kirkland.”

Arthur looks up.  
“Kirkland, do you have a moment?”

Andersen looks — _anxious?_ — but in all honestly, Arthur doesn’t really give a shit about Kristian’s boyfriend right now. 

“Thomassen is in the conference room,” he tells him.

“No, no, it’s you I want to talk to, I need a second opinion—”

“I have paperwork,” Arthur says, gesturing to the stack of papers he has no intention of looking at. “Sorry, Andersen, but I’m sure Thomassen can help you with whatever it is you need.”

Andersen looks disappointed, but Arthur stops paying attention.

_God_ , he’s fucked up with François. 

The problem is — if it was anyone else, he probably wouldn’t care. Except in terms of psychoanalysing himself and his apparent inability to just fucking let Kristian _go_. And admittedly, he was drunk out of his fucking _mind_ at the office party, and pretty much everything that happened before he and François went back to his flat is a blur. But going on what little he does remember — François’ gentle hands, soft, smooth skin, clouds of silky golden hair and fresh, rosy lips — Arthur can’t remember why he was ever in love with Kristian Thomassen.

And _yes,_ they’re _different_ : François is so many things that Kristian was not, and Kristian was so many things that François is not. Arthur _knows_ he’ll never get back those blissful days of their first summer at Cambridge — but somehow, François makes him feel like he doesn’t _need_ to. 

It’s different. But so is Arthur — thirty-year-old Arthur doesn’t need the same kind of love as nineteen-year-old Arthur.

But now — now he’s lost _all_ kinds of love. Because he’s fucked up, he’s fucked up again, he always fucks everything up—

“I’ve never seen anyone look so despairingly at a paperweight,” says Thomassen.

“Why are you here? You should be trying to cure that poor woman’s flu.”

“You need to talk,” Kristian tells him, pulling out the chair on the other side of his desk and sitting down in it. Arthur questions how he manages to fucking do even _that_ elegantly.

“I do not need to _talk._ ”

“What happened?”

Arthur sighs. “I—” He stops. Kristian looks at him expectantly, and he’s not seen that look since — since the day Kristian decided to quit. 

He closes his eyes, and tries again. “Fucking hell, Kristian, I fucked up. I fucked up, I pissed him off, and rightfully so, too, I’d be angry — but fucking hell, why do I always do this? Why can’t I just have a relationship with someone I care about and not end up with them hating me?” Arthur realises he’s crying, and Kristian bites his lip.

“Hey, I’m sure you can resolve it. Honestly!” he says as he sees Arthur’s look of sad disagreement. “I get the feeling you’re not going to tell me what you did, but I’m sure it’s not so bad that you can’t talk it through with him, or make it up to him. Have you even spoken to him since?”

“Well, no, but—”

“That’d be a pretty good place to start.”

“Well, yes, but—” Arthur takes a deep breath. “Fuck, Kristian, I think he _hates_ me. And it was so perfect, too, you know? We watched a ridiculous French film together, and then just sat and talked for hours, and then I fucked it all up because I just don’t know how to handle a fucking adult relationship — god, I’m going to fucking _die_ alone, I’m never going to be fulfilled, and I’m just going to push away everyone I meet until it’s just me and a bloody _cat_ and that’ll be it — that’ll be _it_. That’s what my personal life will look like: a string of failed relationships, a dysfunctional family, and a cat.”

“I mean, cats are pretty good company,” says Kristian, and Arthur gives him his best look of pure contempt through his tears. “Look, Arthur, and I mean this kindly — maybe you just need to reflect on your priorities here. Perfection is great, but maybe you need to try and let go of the idea of everything being absolutely perfect, and try to just find happiness instead.”

Arthur laughs bitterly. “You make it sound so easy, but you’re just as bad as me.”

“You’re not wrong, but you should still try to talk things through with François and try to forget whatever it was that happened — or rather, _learn_ from it and _build_ on it and grow a stronger relationship.”

Arthur chews his lip. He knows Kristian is right. But — it doesn’t make it any easier. 

Kristian brushes his hair out of his face, and his hand catches the sun streaming in, throwing shards of light all over Arthur’s office.

“Is that — an _engagement ring_?”

Kristian flinches, and quickly says, “I was going to tell you—”

“I cannot believe this. You’re _marrying_ Andersen?”

“Arthur, I _love_ him—”

“Have you even told him?”

Kristian falls silent, pain in his eyes. Arthur shakes his head. He’s _angry_ — angry on Andersen’s behalf, on behalf of someone marrying into a mess of secrets he hasn’t been told the half of.

“You’ve barely been seeing him for a year! You were only _living_ together because you _needed_ someone, and not in an emotional sense, and I thought — _everyone_ thought — he’d move out once you’d recovered — Kristian, he _deserves_ to know.”

“What would _you_ do?” Kristian asks suddenly. “Tell me, Arthur, what would you do if you knew you were dying, and you knew it would kill the man you loved to know it? What would you do, if the person who made you happier than you _ever_ thought you could be asked you to marry them — would you really refuse them? Would you really refuse yourself that? Would you really refuse me a last few years of happiness?”

“I’m not saying you should’ve said _no_ , I’m just saying you shouldn’t be so fucking _selfish_ —” Arthur breaks off, realising he doesn’t have the energy to argue anymore. “You know what, just forget it,” he says quietly. “Congratulations, Kristian. I’m very happy for you.”

He shrugs his coat on, and leaves his office in silence. 

* * *

Arthur dreams of Cambridge that night. He dreams of that beautiful, golden summer, at the end of their first year; of Kristian, freshly eighteen and choking on his first sip of vodka; of the long, hot days in the grounds of the college; of the good morning kisses and the goodnight cuddles.

He dreams of sitting on his bed in his tiny, shitty student halls, listening as Kristian told him about why he hadn’t gone home that summer. He told him of his mother, who reserved affection only for highest grades, how anything else would land him locked in his room with his books. Of his father, who would ignore him until it came to work functions, whereupon he would be a trophy — a violin recital, an impromptu show of his perfect English and practiced Latin, but his father put no _pride_ behind it; simply _arrogance_.

He told him of how one day, he’d take his little brother out of there, how he’d do anything to keep Emil from losing his childhood as he did; how one day, he hoped he could have a _real_ family.

(Arthur had thought, then, that he’d be the one to complete the family of three — that _he’d_ be the one to save Kristian.)

He dreams of how he’d leant in to kiss Kristian one day to find his boyfriend shying away from his touch, shaking his head, saying it was too fast, too much, too soon. He wasn’t ready; he was only eighteen and Arthur was twenty and Kristian didn’t want anything _serious_ , and Arthur realised that maybe, just _maybe_ , he wasn’t meant to be the one in the picture frame after all—

and he tried, he _tried_ to keep his grasp on Kristian, sending him cards, buying him flowers, the way his brothers had always done for the girls they loved, but

Arthur, you can’t _buy_ him, Andrei had said

and Kristian had shaken his head

and Arthur realised then that he’d made a mistake, bringing primary school rules to adult relationships, and his world had fallen down around him, because maybe if he hadn’t been so damn _stupid_ , Kristian would still be his — or at least he might even look at him—

He dreams of the day Kristian had taken his hand and told him it was _okay_ — they were still friends, still best friends. Kristian had forgiven him — now Arthur had to forgive _himself_ — and for god’s _sake_ , see a fucking therapist, because his family issues ran deeper than Kristian’s.

Arthur wakes up at six-thirty, gets dressed, and is on time to work.

* * *

“Beilschmidt,” Arthur says. “Is Bonnefois not around?”

“He’s here, he’s in surgery,” says Beilschmidt, an eyebrow raised. “I expect he’ll be finished shortly. You’re not planning on doing any more damage to my employees’ productivity, are you?”

“More? Zwingli isn’t your employee, and I didn’t cause his little meltdown.”

“But you did Bonnefois.”

“I did, indeed, do Bonnefois,” Arthur agrees, and Beilschmidt glares at him. “I just want to talk to him, is that allowed?”

Beilschmidt innocently raises his hands. “I’m not _disallowing_ anything.”

“Excellent,” says Arthur, and makes himself comfortable in the Cardiology lounge.

Bonnefois walks in ten minutes later, looking tired, stressed, with rumpled scrubs and hair scraped into a messy ponytail and Arthur swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful. Not even the scowl upon seeing Arthur ruins it. 

“Kirkland,” he says curtly, and Arthur stands up.

“François, I’d like to talk—”

“I’m not sure _I_ would.”

“Please,” Arthur says. “I’m really, truly sorry for what I did.”

“You _humiliated_ me.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, I really am. If I could change it—”

“You can’t.”

“I _know_ , I know that. I really, really regret it. But I really like you, François. Would you please just _consider_ giving me another chance?”

François looks at him, long and hard. “I imagine it took you and your ridiculous pride a lot to say that,” he says finally. “So — I suppose.”

It hurts Arthur more he can explain not to hear the usual ‘ _petit’_ , but François’ words are an immense weight off his shoulders. 

“Oh, thank god,” Arthur breathes. “Thank you — _god_ , thank you—”

“I couldn’t stay mad at you much longer, petit, even though you deserve it,” François says with a tired smile, pulling the hair tie out of his hair and letting himself fall back into the less-than-clean sofa. 

Arthur tries to bite back his smile, but ultimately fails. “Oh, thank fuck, I’ve been losing my fucking mind.”

“Doesn’t take a lot, though,” François says, and Arthur laughs.

“You’re fucking right,” he says. “I’m a bloody mess.”

“But,” says François, pulling him down next to him and taking his hand, “for some reason, you’re my bloody mess. My flatmates are in Spain, you’re coming over and watching a French film and drinking French wine tonight, okay?”

Arthur grins. “Okay.”

( _Le Fabuleux Dèstin d’Amélie Poulain_ , Arthur decides, would probably have made a lot more sense had they spent less time — ah — _snuggling_ on François’ big, throw-covered sofas. One scene in particular, however, manages to stick in his mind, as les _quinze_ couples en train d’avoir un orgasme deviennent _seize_.)

* * *

 “Good morning,” Arthur says brightly to his team, all hunched over the conference table nursing coffees. Belatedly, he remembers it was Héderváry’s thirtieth yesterday — but he can’t imagine they’d have missed him. 

“Bonnefois looked pretty chipper, too,” Zwingli informs the room.

Arthur ignores him, instead choosing to sit on the table and stare at the whiteboard, swinging his legs as he scans the lists of symptoms.

“You know, I cannot work this one out,” he says thoughtfully. Fatigue, fever, joint pain, and more recently, headaches — it’s just too broad. Nearly a decade of med school — along with everyone in the room — tells him to discharge her and her influenza, but his own instinct (a _highly_ scientific tool, of course) tells him he _knows_ it, and it’s not something cured with bed rest and Night Nurse. 

“I’m pretty sure Edelstein is experiencing all of the listed symptoms, should we be quarantining him?” Thomassen asks drily.

“It’s not contagious, Thomassen, her husband is perfectly fine,” Arthur replies. Thomassen shoots him a deeply unimpressed look.

“These are barely even symptoms, Kirkland,” says Héderváry. “The fever, sure, but joint pain? Fatigue? She’s thirty-six, she’s got a full-time job and two children, and she probably last caught a break in the noughties. It’s no wonder she’s feeling rough.”

“Are you feeling the effects of old age now you’re in your thirties, Héderváry? Is sympathy clouding your judgement?”

“Can _you_ still run five miles in under under thirty-five miles, Kirkland?” Thomassen asks. “Is that a grey hair I see? Thirty isn’t really your friend, either, is it?”

Arthur opens his mouth to retaliate with a masterpiece of a remark about Thomassen being in his twenties and Andersen being a cradle-snatcher, but then it occurs to him — old age. Fatigue. _Memory loss_.

“It’s lupus,” he breathes, and his hungover team don’t seem to have the energy to question him. “Héderváry’s right — well, actually, she couldn’t be more wrong, but — what if there were more symptoms the patient — and _we_ — had just passed off as the wonderful effects of getting older? Zwingli, go and ask if she’s been experiencing memory loss and stiffness — and get an ANA and full blood count to start.”

“ _Lupus_ ,” repeats Zwingli disbelievingly, but he backs off at a glare from Arthur.

“I have _never_ had a case of lupus, don’t ruin this for me,” he says.

“It’s a hell of a stretch,” says Edelstein.

“It’s _always_ a hell of a stretch,” says Thomassen. “That’s why there are four of us to tell him he’s wrong.”

“But this time, I’m right,” Arthur says. “I know it. I’m certain of it.”

“She’s anaemic,” Edelstein says suddenly, and the whole room turns to look at him. “It — it’s in the file. Lupus would make sense.”

There’s a long pause.

“ _No one_ read the file?” says Arthur. It isn’t really a question.

“Neither did you, otherwise you’d have mentioned anaemia sooner,” Thomassen points out. “We would have probably called it a nasty cold and discharged her sooner if we’d known about the anaemia.”

Arthur shakes his head. “None of you deserve your paycheques,” he says. “You’re meant to be the ones who reel me in so that Oxenstierna doesn’t have to dip into the lawsuit fund he has stashed away for me.”

“We are _terrible_ doctors,” Zwingli says, getting up to question their patient. “People die when we make mistakes, and we _know_ that, and yet we get drunk and come into work hungover — I’m sorry, Kirkland, that’s the last you’ll see of my negligence.”

Zwingli’s face is grim as he leaves the room, and the other three look sheepish as Arthur wipes the board clean. Five minutes later, Edelstein’s pager beeps. 

“It’s lupus,” he announces. 

Arthur smiles. “It’s nice not to be the one fucking up for a change.”

Edelstein stands up, brushes off his coat, and takes a last sip of coffee. “I’m going to confirm,” he says.

“Me too,” Héderváry says quickly, and Thomassen follows, leaving Arthur alone in the conference room with a satisfied smile. 

As a human being, he knows he shouldn’t be so happy about an autoimmune disease, but as a diagnostician — _lupus_. He’s never had a real case of lupus. 

His quiet celebrations are interrupted by a knock on the door, and when he yells _come in_ , Søren Andersen walks in. 

“Ah, Andersen. Congratulations on the engagement. Can I help you?”

Andersen doesn’t smile back at him. “Thanks. Could I — uh — get a second opinion on this?” he asks, holding out a file. 

It’s a CT, a perfectly regular case of locally advanced lung cancer, stage 3A, and it doesn’t explain why Andersen is here. He must have seen a million of these before.

“I don’t understand, Andersen, you know the diagnosis, why are you showing _me_ —?”

The patient name at the top of the image kills the words on his tongue.

_Andersen, S._

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _À Bout de Souffle_ ('Breathless') is a 1960 (French New Wave) crime film regarded to be a masterpiece of French film.  
>  _Le Fabuleux Dèstin d’Amélie Poulain_ ('Amélie') is a much-loved, 'whimsical' 2001 romcom. In the one scene Arthur remembers, Amélie wonders how many couples are orgasming in Paris, and answers her own question with 'fifteen'. _Les quinze couples en train d’avoir un orgasme deviennent seize._ : The fifteen couples orgasming becomes sixteen.  
> I hope all the medical things are vaguely accurate, I tried my best. Sorry for all the dashes, and the wait for this, and the ending. Leave a comment if you, too, have a stack of papers you have no intention of looking at.  
> (tumblr: @scandinavienne)


End file.
